On days like today I feel like I'm on autopilot. I wake up. I make breakfast. I pack lunches. I wrestle a squirmy, screamy toddler into her clothes for the day. I drive to work. I work.
Then I find myself in the parking garage, walking to my car, cursing under my breath that the attendant moved it from one side to the other, hiding it in a spot I manage to overlook. Twice.
And as I merge onto the freeway, I truly understand the meaning of working for the weekend.
Because on the weekend I get to see this:
On the weekend, I get to introduce Alexa to the joy that is the splash
park. I get to watch her curiously point at the water from a distance.
She puts two and two together. Her eyes light up. We're going there?
And she starts the curious dance toward the sporadic spurts of water shooting out of the ground. Closer, closer, then turns and sprints away, only to turn back around and point at the water sternly. Don't you touch me, water! She says in baby jibberish, looking very wary of this whole setup.
But wait. She sees me dart into the water, into the center where the water can't touch me. Residual mist manages to spray me in the face, and it's oh-so-refreshing on this brutally hot Saturday.
"C'mon, Alexa!" I implore her.
She smiles and darts toward me, finally figuring out that Zoolander truth: Wetness is the essence of beauty!
We leave the park wet and giggly and about 10 degrees cooler than when we arrived. The weekend is almost here again. Almost, almost, almost.